By Joshua Ryan

Jerry’s new boyfriend was giving him a birthday party — arranged by Jerry, of course.  There’s no point in describing it; it was just a big gay gathering with the ordinary number of lushes and phonies and nice guys, none of them interested in me.  Dean and Craig were part of the crowd standing around the quesadillas.  The usual drinks, the usual food, the usual conversation, the usual question from Jerry: “How’s the next book comin?”

“Slowly.”

“Gimme a date!  Publisher wants more of you.”

“I’m sure.  But I’ve paid for your BMW, and I’ve paid for your pool, so I’m doing this one at my own pace.”

“Come on!  It’s April!  I wanta fill the pool.”

“Whatever that means … As you know, my last book’s in the third printing…”

“Which means it’s about time to give em a new one.  Look…”

A 30-something in shorts that were far too tight for him wandered over, and I had the pleasure of meeting “Rory,” the latest BF.  That was that, but after a while Dean detached himself from Craig and the others who were grouped around him and strode in my direction.  He was the only person I knew who actually looked good in a Hawaiian shirt.

“Pushing the season?” I asked.

“Yeah, I know it’s early.  Follow me.  I told Craig you’d like a look at my car.”

“I’ve seen your car.”

“He doesn’t know that.  Lots of people don’t know lots of things.”

The car was moored at the curb like a battleship.  Dean leaned his back against it lazily and smiled.  “So?”

I handed him the envelope I had in my back pocket.

He opened it, pulled out the check, and nodded.  “C’mon.  We’re goin’ on a beer run.”

He tucked the envelope under the driver’s seat, I got in on the other side, and we drove off down the street.

“You said something about having things ready?” I reminded him.

“Well,” he answered, “first I’m gonna give you a kiss.”  He leaned over, and the kiss came, quick but heavy.  “Second, I’m gonna put you into the correctional system.”

“Right now?”  What the hell!  Suddenly, I wasn’t scared and nervous.  I was panicked.

“Keep your shirt on.  I haven’t done it yet.”

A few blocks away there was a dump called Pat’s Party Store, with a parking lot behind it.  Dean pulled in, the bottom of his ten-ton bumper scrunching on the concrete where the sidewalk went across, and parked in the back of the lot.  There was nobody around.  As someone used to making up plots, I knew to a near certainty that he had taken me here to kill me.

The motor went silent.  “Sorry to tell you this…” he said.  Oh fuck!  “…but three days ago you were found guilty in the Patna County District Court and sentenced to the state penitentiary.  Given your lack of any prior infractions and your purported standing in the community, you were released on your own recognizance, pending an order to report for incarceration.  You’ll get that in the mail in a week or so.  You’ll be ordered to surrender for custody at the Patna County Sheriff’s Department.  Not sure exactly when, but sometime in early June.  The system will take care of that, as soon as I upload your data.”

“Oh,” I said, looking past him at the Motel 4 that backed up to the wall of the parking lot.  On the neon facing the side street I could read the word VACANCY.  “OK.”

What else could I say?  I wasn’t panicked anymore.  I was petrified.  Things were moving past me, very fast.  Although at least he hadn’t killed me.  But he was looking at me as if he was expecting me to say something more.

“Maybe you’re curious about how you got in trouble,” he said.

“Right.  What did I do?”

“You were drunk.  Driving erratically, late at night. Sheriff’s Deputy Brannigan pulled you over.  Enough coke under the seat to qualify you for possession with intent to distribute.  You also got funny with the deputy.  Charges: DUI, unauthorized possession of controlled substance, possession of controlled substance for sale, resisting arrest, assaulting an officer of the law.  No jury trial.  Obviously, you did a plea bargain to keep this out of the media.  Apparently no one paid much attention to the name Steven Meres.”

“I’m glad to know I put up a fight,” I said.

“It’s just a story.  Want to know what your sentence is?”

“Sure.  What did I get?”

“One to life.”

“LIFE!”

“Keep your shirt on.  I didn’t put you in the system yet.  I’ll do that in a minute.  When you ask me to.  But I already told you about the indeterminate sentence.  And I told you I’d get you out when the little hand is on the one.”

“All right, but life…!  Why LIFE?”

“Because the longer your sentence, the better the prison you’ll get.  You don’t wanta go to some punky minimum-security joint, do you?  Where you live in a fuckin DORMITORY?”

“No.  Not if you put it that way.”  I could see that “minimum” wasn’t worth $20,000.

“So to get you in a serious place, I had to dial it up to something meaningful.  Lotsa guys get ‘X years to life.’  This one should put you in Shawnee Springs.  Maybe Whitmore.  They’re high security.  Then there’s Maskawa, but…”

“Mas … ka … What?  Where’s that?”

“MASK-a-wah,” he said, like he was a master of Indian languages.  “It means ‘strong,’ ‘strong place,’ ‘fort.’ It’s way up north.  On an island, out in the lake.  It’s the toughest pen in the system.  Not much chance you’ll end up there.”

Remember when you bought your last cell phone?  You’re in the store, and the guy’s describing the features, and you have no idea what he’s talking about.  You can ask your random questions, but you have to rely on his “expertise.”  You end up buying the phone being featured that month.  Usually you end up liking it.

“OK.  I see.”

“I knew you’d understand.”

He looked at his watch.  It was big and chromy and it had lots of dials, and he made no secret of checking it.  We both knew we couldn’t stay away from the party for very long; boyfriends are always suspicious.

“When you get your Order to Report,” he said, “it will tell you when you need to turn up at the Patna County Jail.  Call me and confirm that you got it.  I’ll make sure I’m working that shift and I’m on the roster to transport you to Owosso.”

“Owosso?”

“We talked about that.”

“Oh, right.”  Excitement was switching off the parts of my brain, one by one … Concentration, memory…

His arm reached into the back seat and dragged out a laptop.  He pulled it open and a website flared into life.  “Look,” he said.  “There’s only two things you need to know.  In a couple minutes I’m gonna ask you if I should click on this button at the bottom of the page.  If you say yes, that whole record I told you about — your conviction and all that stuff — goes into the system, and you’ll receive your order to report for prison.  And you’ll have to obey it.  Got that?”

“Yes.”

“Soon as you get that order, you need to start doing whatever you need to do to clear outta your life for 12 months.  Then go to the jail when the order tells you, and I’ll take care of you.  Very simple.  All right?  That’s one thing you need to know.”

“OK.  What’s the other thing?”

“The other thing is — You don’t want to end up in a lunatic asylum, do you?”

“No.”

“And you don’t want to end up dead?”

“No!  What are you…?”

“We talked about when you get out, keepin this quiet and so forth.  That’s fine.  But let’s talk about when you’re in prison.  Don’t say anything about how you got there.  If you do, probably no one will believe you.  If you keep at it, the administration will send you to the loony bin.  That is, if they get to you first.  When the other cons decide you’re a plant, they won’t ask questions.  They’ll kill you.  Your best friend in the joint, he’ll kill you first.  Understood?”

“I have no intention of…”

“I know you don’t.  Not now.  But it has to be NEVER.  Got it?”

“Right.  Understood.”

“Now get out of the car.  I’m gonna take your picture.”

“Huh?”

“You’re always doing that,” he grinned. “Always going, like, ‘what?!’  Some author you are!  Some member of the intellectual elite!  But I’ll explain it to you.  If you’ve been arrested, you must have some mugshots in your record.  I could use your DMV shit, but it’s shit.  Doesn’t even look like you.  So I’m gonna do it now.  Get out and stand in front of that wall over there.”

The wall at the back of the lot was long, white, and concrete, apparently constructed for taking pictures of criminals.  Are you supposed to look handsome for these things?  Apparently not.  Dean gave me no time to pose.  “Face me.  OK, done.  Now I can add this to the rest of your files.”

He returned to the car and sat sideways on the driver’s seat, with his feet on the ground, playing with his laptop.  I slouched around beside him, putting my hands in my pockets and pulling them out.

“All right,” he said.  “All ready.  If I push this button, you’re going to prison.  Just like we said.”

“Sure,” I said.  “Do it.”

He pushed the button, and the laptop beeped.

“That’s it,” he said, standing up and kissing me.  “You’re going to prison.  Now let’s get that beer and go back to the party.”

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